Wild Wild West 1. Chapter 1

**1**

The figures sat in candlelight, each with a black hood draped over their face; their eyes being their only identifying mark. The eerie illumination of the candle's flame and the black backdrop of the masks' made their eyes seem to leap out and glow in the darkness, filled with contempt and malevolence. Their movements' serpent like, as if wickedness eked from their pores and malice moved through their veins. The air in the room was so inert the flame on every candle was unmoving, in radiant calm. The walls contained long flowing crimson drapes that overlapped and looked as if they were one throughout the room. Shadows' covered the floor and climbed high into the red curtains tapering to sharp points along the creases forming dark spears that reached for the heavens. Eleven men sat around an elaborate oak table; the tabletop consisted of a giant clock and each man sat at a number. Intricate carvings of serpents weaved in and out of each other along the wooden perimeter of the table. The roman numerals of the timepiece were large, bold, and blood red making an ominous statement against the brightness of the white clock face. The seat at the number twelve was vacant. A woman appeared from behind the curtain and began distributing folders to the masked gentlemen. Without a word she placed each file neatly in front each man and as the hands of the clock slowly started blending together; converging at the midnight mark, the young lady, finished with her circulation, left the room in its cold, quiet stillness.

The silence was cut by another figure, also masked and robed, who had emerged from behind the curtain speaking, "The direction and the fate of the world starts here…" each man raised their left hand and placed their palms over their corresponding number on the table, "…and now. The time?"

"Midnight," all in unison answered. A bell toll filled the room, counting out the hour, afterwards the speaker sat at the number twelve designation and continued, "We are the chosen, the first and last men of time, the balance of destiny, and sculptor of tomorrow. The gathering of the Midnight Society shall commence. Brother Three," he motioned across the table, "please bring us up to date with your charge."

"Thank you," Brother Three answered and with a nod of acknowledgement to the others seated, he continued, "In the Americas' we have found a land rich in agriculture, precious metals, and vast space. Unlike our other worldly brothers we have an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and start anew with this infant country, an opportunity to rise like the Phoenix from the ashes to envelop, reshape, and dominate the rest of the world." Brother Three left his seat and started to circle the room as he spoke, "Operation Downfall has hit a snag, if you would open your folders I will bring you up to speed.' 'The preparation has been intercepted en route to the operation based in Virginia City," Brother Three continued circling the room, "The solution was the last ingredient needed to initiate 'Downfall'; the earlier stages in progress will be completed and the last stage is to be finished," he paused, "with a minor delay, as soon as the formula is retrieved and returned…"

"Where is the formula?" interrupted Brother Ten.

Three addressed the question, "The formula is in the possession of a United States Secret Service agent by the name of Palmer, his dossier is among the others you have received," the participants started shuffling through their documents for the file, "Theodore Palmer, thirty-two, has been a Secret Service agent since 1873 with an impressive record. He is considerably skilled in a variety of subjects, intelligence gathering, disguise, and firearms." Three pressed on, "Palmer served under Mead during the recent war, was recruited to the Service after working for the Pinkerton Detective Agency with varying success. "Well liked and respected among his peers, Palmer has no history of behavior that could be exploited to redirect his loyalty to our cause."

Three stopped and placed his hands on the back of his chair, "He does not over-indulge alcohol, is very trustworthy and is as honorable as his record states."

Brother Twelve queried, "And as to Palmer's whereabouts?"

"It is known that he has not contacted the Secret Service for fear of interception and it is believed that he will try to engage assistance from a fellow agent by the name of Gordon, a close comrade."

Another Brother spoke out, "Is that the same Gordon that is affiliated with James West?"

"The same. It appears that Palmer and Gordon share the same passion for the theatre and for a bit traveled with the same acting troupe." Brother Three continued, "And now Gordon is teamed with West."

Brother Six spoke out, "How did Palmer acquire the serum in the first place?"

"Its most likely that he had information that was sold to him by a person along one of the pipelines, he then infiltrated the pipeline, retrieved the solution, is suspected to still be in Mexico, yet to make it to the States."

"Brother Three," Twelve, started and after a short pause continued, "What is the solution to this very discouraging report?"

"The operation will proceed as planned, a bit behind schedule…" Three continued coldly, "…our influences within the Federales and the Mexican government have assured us that a warrant for Palmers arrest and detention has been initiated. Every police officer and soldier in Mexico have orders to capture Palmer, and I have also initiated contact of the Brothers Rojo to handle any loose ends."

***********

Esteban Cruz made his way home as he always had, stumbling drunkenly, through the dimming streets of Ensenada, a small town centered along Baja California's western coast. The small port hosting a half a dozen warehouses, peppered with seedy hotels and taverns, and further surrounded by little shops and tiny adobe homes.

It had been another day of celebration for Esteban and he could not tell you if he had been to six or seven cantinas today, nor could he count how many drinks he had and had furnished for the working girls.

He tried to recall their names as he clumsily plodded his way over the uneven cobblestones, "Maria…y…Teresa… y Carmella…"

Normally he would not receive as much attention and was well aware of that, in fact he prided himself on his ability to blend in; the knack of seeing but not being seen, to hide out in the open, it had made him a lot of money. Working as a stevedore at the docks kept a roof over his head, and some tequila in his glass, and when that glass was empty, all he had to do was put it to the wall to make extra money. What he got paid a couple of days ago was going to keep him for at least a month. One hundred American dollars all for nothing but handing out some information. All he did was point out a currier and hand over some addresses.

Esteban chuckled in self-adoration as he continued homeward; the gringo was crazy to mess with that stuff, Esteban recalled what he had heard about it, that any exposure to the poison would kill a man in seconds. How far did he think he was going to get, more than likely, the gringo was dead. One of those bottles was going to break, if not for the fact that Esteban supplied the gringo with a different box instead of the crate they were in, and the gringo thought it was an excellent idea in disguising his package. So the gringo switched crates and loaded the poison in the rigged the box. A nail that was strategically placed inside of the box to scratch away at the glass as it moves in transit would eventually spell his doom. It would not matter who found the gringo, neither the Federales nor anyone else will find him alive. The bottle will break, the gringo will be poisoned and unable to say whom, if anybody, had helped him. One hundred dollars, free and clear.

Esteban nearly took a tumble rounding a corner and was caught by a fencepost. Resting for a moment he finally pulled himself up and trudged on. The street kept moving on him, Esteban straightened himself and with some difficulty, tried to walk with the shifting ground. He started to plan which cantinas he was going to tomorrow, his house was just around the corner and he couldn't wait to get to bed. The smell of freshly made tortillas and refried beans filled the air. As the sun set the crickets started their chirping; looking for a mate. Children were making their own way home following the scent of dinner, a couple of boys stopped and acted drunk to tease Esteban, he continued on his way; ignoring their taunts. At his gate he cursed at the neighbor's chickens as he tried to drive them from his yard; maybe he would fix the fence someday and then they could not mess on his porch. He tried avoiding the droppings as he crossed the deck but couldn't in his inebriated state, he mumbled another curse at the chickens as he entered his house. Esteban clumsily bumped into his furniture as he headed for the bedroom, a light accompanied by a voice startled him, and he spun around to meet it.

"Let us assist you, amigo," a thin man in a suit of red said as he lit a lamp and set it on a table.

Esteban adjusted his liquor-reddened eyes, he had been startled from the unnerving tone of the voice but was also blindsided upon seeing the mask the man was wearing. A devil mask covered his face; it was blood red, matching the mans suit, the sharp edges of the nose and cheekbones stood out, its horns reaching upward to fine points along with a sinister grin covered the bottom half. Esteban, now terrified, felt his lower extremities grow cold and sink into the floor, stunned into sobriety he queried, "Who are you and what are you doing in my house?"

"Esteban," the masked man answered, his tone cold but was weirdly melodic in its pattern, "…we was told that you may assist us with a little problem…" another lamp from across the room was lit by a gigantic man with a wicked scar trailing down across the bridge of his nose, blanketed the doorway, covering the exit, and placed his lamp on a shelf next to the door.

"…That is what you do, no?" The masked man straightened and tossed a canvas bag upon the table, "we heard that you 'help' people find things for a price."

"I, I don't know where you heard that b-but…" Esteban had started to sweat as the men drew closer and closer.

"My dear Esteban," the masked man produced a cane, the black lacquer flashing the reflection of the lamps, he twisted and pulled on the chrome skull handle and unsheathed a thin, polished sword, "you have not gone to work the past two days, you have frequented most of the cantina's in Ensenada; paying for drinks and companionship with newly found American money…" with the flat side of the blade the masked man swatted the bag upon the table.

Esteban's heart sank when the bag jumped and the unmistakable rattling sound filled the room, before Esteban could react, the giant had grabbed him by the hair and slammed him down on the table; his face inches from the bag.

Esteban's face grew hot and sweat ran along his cheeks, he tried to struggle but the giant had the strength and the leverage, he could not move.

"…Now, my friend," the masked man continued, "where is the gringo?"

"I-I do not know…" Esteban eked out his answer, the pressure from his captor above forcing the air from his lungs.

Another swat from the masked man's dagger sent the snake jumping from inside the bag; the clicking from its tail charged the electricity throughout the room.

"You already know who we are and you know we would not be here if we did not know you helped Palmer," the masked man moved to the other side of the table, tilting his head slightly to meet Esteban's eyes, "Angelita, here," he stroked the snakes head with his sword and with a hiss, it snapped at the blade, "she is a diamondback or is she a sidewinder?' 'I cannot remember…oh well, a rattle snake is a rattle snake, they all kill, no?"

His heart felt as if it was going to explode, tears flowed from Estebans eyes as he continued to resist the giant to no avail, and from his exasperations, spittle formed on the corners of his mouth as he fought for freedom or at least an answer to his nightmare.

The snake followed the edge of the masked man's sword as he playfully waved its tip between the snake and Esteban's face, "Look into the eye's of Angelita and tell me what I want to know."

The neighbors heard Esteban's screams but continued eating their dinners in silence; fathers hushed their children, mothers closed doors and drew curtains. The news had spread fast; the Rojo Brothers were in town.

**2**

"PULL!" shouted West and first one clay target than another whizzed through the air only to explode into fragments, leaving puffs of dust hanging in space as bits and pieces spun in chaotic circles to the earth. James West prepared himself for the next round of clay pigeons to be launched. He puffed on his cigar and set the butt of his Winchester deep into his shoulder.

"I don't understand why you call 'PULL', when it is, by design, launching the targets automatically," Artemus Gordon stated matter of factly, without moving his attention from his painting.

West called back through his cigar clenched teeth, "Habit,… PULL!"

Two more targets flew from the machine; its spokes, rods, and chains creating a tiny, metallic orchestra with its measured whirrs and tings, well working to load more clay targets.

West quickly disposed of the discs and faced the launcher, tripping a switch with his boot, turning the mechanism off. He then turned to the small table set between them; a decanter of brandy and glasses were upon the table, safely under the shade of Artie's umbrella.

Artemus was muddling with some oil's atop his palate, whistling while he mixed the paint to his desired color. He held the brush over the canvas; trying to imagine his newly made shade within his painting thus far. Gordon then compared the color from his brush to his subject; .

West dipped his cigar in his brandy then returned it to his mouth, "Too much magenta," he commented about the painting.

"Everyone's a critic," Artie chimed back, "are you through for the day?"

"Yes," Jim answered as he returned to pack away the machine; folding it into its own compartment and sliding the cover over it, "besides, it's mail call."

Gordon glanced down the track, sighting Tennyson; the studious manservant was riding a donkey toddling aside the tracks, his nose to the sky. Artie swirled the last of the brandy in his glass then finished it off. He then returned the glass to the table and turned to the easel, clipping the painting to it with a large spring clip attached to the bottom, he stood and placed his palate upon the stool and from underneath the seat flipped another clip that held the palate in place. Artie approached the edge of the car's roof and cranked a lever, with each revelation the furniture collapsed lower and lower until they were set flat within the roof and when he flicked the lever into its resting place, long slats slid over, hiding the fixtures and returning the roof to its original representation.

West had already descended, put his rifle away, gotten a towel and was proceeding to pat the perspiration from his neck and brow as Artie climbed from the roof. Tripping a switch after reaching the bottom, sent the metal rungs skidding into the outside wall, Gordon brushed the dust from his hands as Tennyson finally reached the train.

Tennyson dismounted, handing off his donkey to the brakeman who proceeded to the stable car. The studious man-servant was sporting a large bag that was strapped around his shoulder; Tennyson reached inside and started to disperse the letters, "Three very odiferous communications for you sir," he handed the perfumed letters over to West, "and one sans aroma for you sir," he gave the plain envelope to Gordon. Tennyson then pulled a red, heart shaped box from his satchel. Both West and Gordon waited for his announcement to which the box was for. Tennyson broke the silence, "Abigail Graysmith," he stated to the agents, "a very good friend of the family." With a smile he then went inside to clean up and continue with his duties.

West and Gordon chuckled and followed the butler into the cabin and began to open their mail. Jim sat on the couch and fell into his first letter; Gordon remained standing as he stared at his, the concern growing upon his face.

"Jim?" Artie questioned, "Do we have anything that we need to be doing at this moment?"

West looked up from his letter and stared into space looking for an answer, "No, we should be free for the next two weeks, why?"

"I'm afraid a friend of mine is in trouble," he handed the sheet of paper to West.

Jim examined the flyer, it was a billing for the Shakespearian play Macbeth, he mentioned to Gordon, "This was for a showing ten years ago."

Artie sat on the edge of the desk and pointed out, "Did you see who was acting in it?"

Jim scanned the document again; within the credits of the actors was Artie's name, "Someone sending you a reminder?"

"Let me tell you that the reviews for that performance was less than favorable," Artemus rubbed his brow, "the only good thing that came from it was I had become associates with a fellow thespian, 'Theodore Palmer'."

"He works for the Service," recalling the name Jim also found it on the flyer.

Gordon continued, "The performance was so bad that it became a running joke between me and Theo," he gave an example, "'that restaurant's main course was a Macbeth'," Artie took the paper back from West, "This is a cry for help."

Jim sat up, "Why not contact the Service?"

"Good question," Gordon answered, his attention trained on the document.

"Where was it sent from?"

Looking at the postmark on the envelope, Gordon replied, "Ensenada," there was a feeling to the parchment that made him curious. Holding it up to the light Gordon decided to expose it to heat and taking a match from his pocket, Artie struck it with his thumbnail and held it to the underside of the document. Waving the flame to and fro he gradually drew it closer and closer, shortly, in ashen letters the words 'Santa Tierra and a crude drawing of a flower' came into view.

**3**

Santa Tierra was a farming village one hundred twenty five miles south of the Mexican/American border. Surrounded completely by farms and ranches, the community was practically self-sufficient. Very few money deals was made and the village mostly operated on the barter system. The farmers and ranchers specialized in certain goods and tradesmen in town supplied almost all other services needed. The town's square held open market three times a week, and for the days in-between and during the evening hours, a small general store was proud to provide when in need. The town had been the territories hub for auctions, social gatherings, and of course, church. The adobe structure with its wooden steeple was one of the first buildings erected some two hundred years earlier, and was thirty yards from the square's fountain, overlooking the heart of the village.

A black carriage sat atop one of the rolling hills to the north of town and was a truly unique vehicle, it's latter half was distinctly made to resemble a hearse; black silk ribbons and bows ran along it's edges, oblong glass windows on the sides and rear of the carriage adorned elaborate flowing tendrils and roses etched upon them, four lanterns ornamented the rig with two set in the front and two set in the back. There were two distinct sections; the hindmost compartment, which inside and to its right housed a small bar with a lamp attached, the plush walls and ceiling consisted of beautifully stitched red satin that encompassed the interior, the stark white curtains were tied open with long tasseled velvet ropes. The seating was a plush black satin, stuffed and stitched in a diamond pattern with small, red skull buttons at the diamonds corners. The front of the carriage had a beaded lining across the overhang, the various sized beads created a close-knit configuration leading down to the floorboard, not allowing the driver to be seen clearly. The driver's seat encompassed most of the area and the only avenue to the rear compartment was to its right. Made for comfort, the chair had flexible but strong leaf springs to absorb the shock of the most difficult of roads, and a mechanism that, when unlocked allowed the driver to swivel to face the rear compartment. Two black horses drew it and their rigging consisted of red leather straps with stainless steel rings that shone brilliantly against the darkness of their coats.

Two figures stood tall beside the horses, gazing down to the small village below. A slight but steady breeze moved wisps of dust over their boots; the sun was beginning to bake the land and the residents were milling around finding their usual siesta places. Pottery and hanging dried chili bundles dotted the homes throughout the village, wooden and straw furniture sat in front of the modest homes just outside their doorways beckoning for some company in the dry heat of the afternoon, but most of the people resided indoors away from the sun, the few that did not had plenty of cover with their ponchos and sombreros draped upon them. The corrals and stables held mostly burros with a horse here and there towering above the rest.

As the villagers succumbed to their ritual respite, the two men climbed into their carriage and made their way to town.

**********

Rosa Maria De La Vega did not look like the typical cantina owner; young and beautiful, she had found dresses to be cumbersome when serving drinks and a distraction to the frequently grabby burrachos that frequented her establishment, so she usually wore a baggy shirt and pants, hiding her delicious figure from the wide-eyed wolves and their wives, who frequently teetered upon the line of jealousy-more so in the past when she had first taken over the 'Mia Rosa'. Her warm auburn hair, long and flowing, was usually pinned up in a twisted bun, held in place with two long knitting needles, her back up in case she could not reach the scattergun placed strategically behind the bar. Her beauty belied her intellect and it would be difficult to see the wisdom behind her dark and incredibly sensual eyes-unless you could look around her beauty and not be drawn in, which was nearly impossible to do. Her rich, golden complexion would radiate, it seemed, even within the gloomy corners of the tavern.

And even though she was a confident and strong woman, Rose-as he had so liked to call her-was being eaten alive with worry. She was happy that siesta finally came around and that the bar had eventually emptied out, giving her time to work out her tension by cleaning the place. Diving in after pushing out the doors her last customer, Rose started working around the tables, wiping them down and gathering the glasses, mugs, and bottles left behind. She was simply going through the motions as her thoughts were about Theodore and why it was taking him so long to return. A moan from behind her made her jump, it was just the vejito Gonzales slumped in his chair, the old man was wedged in the corner, passed out with his chin on his chest. Rose was going to chase the old man out but changed her mind realizing that she did not want to expend the energy in dragging him out, so she placed his sombrero over his face and continued with her wiping and worrying. Besides, she thought, he'll stagger home once the evening crowd shuffles in.

The Mia Rosa consisted of a large cantina with the long bar parallel to the entrance, separated by eight tables of four that dotted the wide floor with smaller tables nestled in the corners with seating for two. Benches rested against the outer walls and above the benches were a variety of paintings that her late-husband had made; tranquil settings of the beauty of the Mexican landscape, a desert night, sunset washed beach, even the village square was depicted. The ceiling was high and a set of stairs ran aside the northern wall leading to the rooms above the bar.

Rose, busy leaning over the bar setting some glasses in the dish basin, heard the front doors faint squeak followed by two pairs of footsteps; one gentleman apparently was wearing spurs as its chimes had filled the room.

"We're closed, come back later," she stated before spinning around to see who had entered. Rose was taken back upon the sight of the giant and the masked man, she had heard stories, rumors, but she never believed them to be true. There was the Brothers Rojo and they were standing in her cantina. Normally Rose would not be afraid, but this wasn't normal, the Rojo Brothers were a nightmarish tale told to keep children from trouble, or a story around the campfire, told to frighten and startle the believer.

Both men weaved their way passed the tables and chairs; boots crunching the sand and dust upon the floor and the k-ting, k-ting of spurs rang with every step. They stopped a few feet short of the petrified barkeep.

"I'm afraid that is not possible, Rosa," came from behind the mask, "we did not come to drink, Senora, we came to talk."

Rose kept a brave front and tried to direct the gentlemen out, "It's been a long morning and it is time for my siesta…" she started for the stairs but was stopped short by the masked man who, with a loud thwack, had laid the end of his cane atop of the bar, cutting off her path.

He tilted toward her and in a much colder and sinister tone asked, "Where is the gringo, Palmer?"

**********

"I'm glad we finally made it before it gets any hotter," Gordon remarked as he and West rode into Santa Tierra, "I don't think I could have lasted another day."

"You're spoiled, Artie," Jim cracked a smile and they crossed glances.

Both men appreciated the tranquility of the village; shortly into the town they had felt a calming relief as if the sun had turned away its heat and the taste of the air became full and sugar-sweet.

"I'm beginning to like this town more and more," Artie nodded in the direction of the cantina's sign, "The Mia Rosa-sounds like the perfect place for a drink."

"And," West stitched on a thought, "it could be exactly what Palmer meant when he left the drawing of the flower on his note."

Tethering their horses at the fountain, West and Gordon couldn't help but to comment on the strange carriage parked in front of the Mia Rosa, "Curious contraption," touted Gordon.

West observed, "Bordering on alarming."

Mutually they sensed the danger, and quietly approached the doors. They each turned an ear to the crack between the doors and listened. West's emerald eyes stirred trying to catch the sounds, Artie squinted as he weeded through the noises coming from inside.

"How many," whispered West.

Artie waved an uncertain two with the fingers of his left hand and one with his right. Gordon was holding the two-fingered hand over the one fingered other, signifying that there are one or possibly two 'heavies' and one 'civilian'.

They decided to venture inside, all the individuals looked towards the doorway as West and Gordon entered the cantina.

The duo was troubled by the appearance of the Rojo Brothers; the red clad devil and the burly giant, but both men kept their surprise under their hats.

"Is this a private party or can anyone join in?" Artemus inquired.

Situated at the bar, the giant had the young lady hoisted by her arms, a few feet off the ground, terror still apparent on her face, the masked man looked at ease seated on bar, his cane twirling in his fingers.

"Please do come in," the masked man's icy, ruthless tone made both men shudder as he invited them in with a wave of his hand, "we was not expecting you quite this soon, Senor Gordon, Senor West."

**4**

It wasn't good-the feeling that the enemy knows you, especially when you have no clue or information about them-the alarms within West and Gordon's heads signaled the hair behind their necks to attention and a cold chill ran over their shoulders.

"You see James, our reputations follow us no matter where we go," Artie boasted, covering his discontent as both he and West further made their way, slowly and strategically, into the cantina.

"You have us at a disadvantage," West continued, "have we met?"

The masked man hopped from the bar, his spurs rang a tiny chime as he landed on the hard floor, "Amigo, if we had met before, you would have never forgotten us."

West stopped a few feet from him. Gordon was facing the giant, on the other side of a table.

The masked man, with a bow and wave of his cane, whimsically introduced them, "I am Galeno Rojo and this is my brother," he motioned toward the giant, who still had Rose dangling by her arms, "Iago."

"Why don't you put the lady down, big guy," Artie suggested, "then we could have a nice long talk about how and why you know us."

"Let me go!" Rose shouted, trying to wriggle free.

The air within the room filled with tension and time seemed to stand still as both parties sized each other up, waiting for the other to make the first move.

The silence was deafening, West cautiously inched closer, his hand hovered over his revolver, the masked man carefully and inconspicuously planted his left foot in front of him, Iago and Gordon locked stares, both remained as still as pouncing cats.

The room exploded into chaos, the giant flung Rose into the nearest wall, flakes of paint and dust fell to the ground with her, Artie drew his .45 as Iago swept up the table in-between them and used it as a shield as he charged at Gordon.

West un-holstered his weapon and in a blink of an eye, the masked man had spun around and kicked, his razor-sharp spur slicing the knuckle below West's thumb causing him to drop the gun, Jim barely avoided the sweeping sword that followed the masked man's kick. The severed top of West's hat floated to the floor.

Gordon only had time to get off two rounds before Iago wrapped the table around him with a crash and continued his siege across the cantina until they smashed through the front doors and into the street.

West grabbed a chair and was able to thwart the sword strikes, the thin masked man proved to be quick and agile as he brought another kick sailing across Jim's mid-section, slicing West's clothing just under his chest. The red-suited devil became a furious crimson blur as he continued spinning and attacking, silver splashes of edged death sparkled with every kick and sword swipe keeping West on the defense, his wooden shield rapidly loosing pieces.

Galeno flaunted, "Senor West you are making this too easy!"

Jim timed his counter-attack perfectly, discarding the remainder of his shield as he caught Galeno's leg in the middle of another spinning kick, lifted the thin man by his coat-neck and trousers with his free hand and using their momentum, West whirled him around and flung him out the front window.

Artie was precariously on the other end of Iago's massive hands, the giant had him pinned, in the air, against the side of the strange carriage as he squeezed Gordon's neck. Gordon's lungs fought for air, the pressure grew in his face and in his eyes, and he felt the cloak of unconsciousness start to overtake him.

West had quickly scanned the floor for his Colt as he made his way to the tattered window, but it wasn't in sight; the red clad masked man was already aboard the driver's seat of the carriage, yelling something in Spanish to his brother that Jim could not make out.

A loud boom echoed throughout the square, Rose had taken aim with her scattergun and sent a shower of lead into the giants back. Apparently Galeno had spotted her and called out a retreat. Iago screamed out and launched Gordon at West, he then caught the rear rails of the carriage, his blood spotted shirt waved in the wake of the odd hearse as it sped off in a cloud of dust. Rose ran into the street cocking the hammer of the second barrel and fired another shot in its direction, a vain attempt for they were not in range.

Rose, shotgun in hand, approached the battered West and Gordon, who was sprawled among the wooden debris and bits of glass on the dirt covered boardwalk. Looking down at the trounced duo and with a twinge of disgust and curiosity she stated, not masking her doubt, "You are the help that Theo sent for?"

West and Gordon exchanged glances, speechless, as she turned and slowly headed back inside the cantina.

**5**

After hanging up the closed sign and boarding up the door-less entrance and the empty window, Rosa had gathered a bowl of fresh water, a towel, and her sewing kit and proceeded to clean and stitch West's wound. Artie had swept the floor afterward found himself behind the bar, fishing through the bottles that lined the shelves for something palpable for his manhandled throat. The pounding behind his ears finally started to fade. Examining the contents of an unlabeled bottle, Artie posed a question for Rose, "So where is Theo?"

"I wish I knew," Rose replied setting down the bloody towel and taking up the needle and thread, "he left yesterday morning, but he had told me that he would return that evening."

West inquired, "What kind of trouble was he in?"

"The worst kind senor," the voice from the shadows startled all three, Old Man Gonzales emerged from the corner of the cantina, "it has to be the worst kind if the Brothers Rojo are looking for you."

"There are stories of the brothers killing whole villages," Rose added while applying the first stitch in Jim's hand.

"Whole villages," Artie questioned in disbelief, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

"Where did they come from," asked West, wincing as Rose applied another suture.

She answered while intently concentrating on her patient's procedure, "No one knows for sure but I remember the stories my father told when I was a child."

"For their age they are amazingly spry," commented Artie who finally had found a suitable bottle and along with some glasses, brought it over for West and Rose to share.

Gonzales gave Gordon a look of disapproval as he shuffled his way to the back of the room, and before exiting he warned Gordon, "I would not be so brash senor, the next time, you might not have Rosa there to save you." With that realization the old man left the cantina.

Artemus knew the old man was correct; Iago did have him dead to rights, and if it weren't for a back full of buckshot, courtesy of Rosa, the giant would have separated his head from his shoulders.

"I'm not doubting that our paths will cross again, and next time will be different," James pointed out with Rosa's last stitch in place.

Artie began divvying up the bottle as Rosa collected her things from the table and with a hint of fear in her voice said, "That's all good and fine, Mr. West, but I'm worried about Theo."

West slugged down his glass of whiskey and motioned for another. Artie filled both of their glasses and they began discussing their next move. Rosa listened in as she started to prepare dinner. No one interrupted, the usual customers either hadn't left their homes or had passed on by the cantina, Rosa knew that the village had heard about the latest happenings and if she lived through this it was going to be a long, long time before anyone would be coming to the Mia Rosa.

**********


	2. Chapter 2

The main topic at dinner was Theodore Palmer, what he was working on and where might he be. West and Gordon had strategically taken their seats, Jim facing the rear entry and Artie facing the front. It had become a habit that had saved their lives dozens of times over the years, whether they were on or off duty, each one would be in charge of an entrance. Rose sat across from them, her finished plate, topped with a napkin before her.

"Like I already told you Senor West," Rose proclaimed, "Theo did not mention where he was going, what he was doing, or who he was with."

"Rose," Jim, stated calmly, "I'm not blaming or accusing you of anything."

"We are just trying to get some idea, some clue to what is going on," Artie injected.

Rose stood to return her dish to the kitchen, she paused for a brief moment then said, "And you have searched through our belongings, our home, and my memories of late…"

"Speaking of late," West jumped in, "I think we all had an eventful day, let's put this on the shelf," he gathered his and Gordon's plates and approached Rose taking her plate as well, "I'll clean up if you can show Artie to our rooms."

"Room," she corrected, "The room at the top of the stairs is my room, the one next to it is empty, and the last room suffered fire damage years ago, most of the floor was weakened and cannot handle any weight…" Rose fought back her feelings and quietly continued, "Theo had started to restore…"

Artie appeared at her side, "Did Theo ever talk about his days in the theatre," he asked amiably, wrapping her hand under his arm, and began escorting her up the stairway, regaling her with a story from his and Palmer's past.

West recognized that Gordon was worried, and when Artie worried he would immediately, help those around him with a deep kindness and concern for their fears. He sent Artie and Rose off with a smile then retreated into the kitchen to complete his chores.

After drying the last dish, Jim checked the lock on the rear door and inspected the now-boarded entrance and window. The fact that the Rojo Brothers knew who they were had chilled him to the bone; he attempted to shrug it off as he headed for the stairs.

Something stopped him before heading up; the feeling that something was missing drove him back into the kitchen. West re-lit the lamps and stood in the corner, silently scanning the room. Everything seemed to be in place, all the pots and pans was in the shelves neatly stacked, the utensils at home on the wall, some stood at attention in jars, a clay pot with a colorful array of flowers hung above a table and benches, sitting before the rooms only window. He was about to leave when he glanced at the ceiling; Jim raised a lamp to get a closer look, "Strange," he thought aloud in a whisper. The ceiling appeared in tact, with no indication of the upstairs fire or any sign of repair, furthermore, the room Rose had mentioned Palmer had been working on happened to be directly above him.

Jim was going to get Artie but figured that Artemus probably needed a good rest after getting manhandled by that giant earlier, so he went by himself to investigate. After making his way past Rose's room, Jim found that the door was locked. He reached under the lapel of his jacket, retrieved his picklock, and soon gained entry. West worked through the creaks of the old hinges and with lamp in hand, he worked the door closed behind him.

The first thing he noticed was that the room was considerably bigger than he thought it would be, he examined the condition of the room; there was indication of a fire in the room's furthest corner. The walls around that area, scorched and bare, the ceiling bore a charred and battered hole; the stars of the midnight sky was illuminating through. Jim inched in to examine the support beams, getting a little too close; West almost lost his footing when part of the floor gave way. He watched the broken piece of floor tumble out of sight as it was consumed by the surrounding darkness of the shaft. Jim held the light over the pit but could only hear sounds of the falling board skipping off conditions unseen, he deduced that it was around thirty-five to forty feet deep.

"Santa Tierra was built on top of an old, Spanish fort, Senor West," said Rose from behind him, lamp in one hand, the scattergun resting under her shoulder, "That shaft was once one of the lookout towers."

"Forgive my curiosity," West humbly requested, "it sometimes gets ahead of me."

"You know that's the same way Theo discovered it," Rose pointed out, "I forgive you, after all, all of you are the same."

That held Jim from completely exiting the room, "Secret Service Agents?"

"Men." She flatly answered as she escorted him out and back to his room, they exchanged the customary 'goodnights' and when she returned to bed she wondered just how crazy tomorrow was going to be.

**6**

"From what I can imagine," West said arms folded and back against the door, "the compound had to be huge," Artie struggled to get his next boot on as Jim continued, "the watch-towers had to be forty feet high, at least, to efficiently scan the rolling hills that surround this area."

Gordon eventually got his boot on and asked his partner, "And you say there hasn't been any signs of repair, even though Rose said that Theo had been working on it."

West added, "From what little I saw, the only thing that had been worked on was some of the support beams."

Artie stood, grabbed his gun-belt and began putting it on, "What do you mean?"

"It looked as if there had been some kind of pulley system in place."

Gordon pulled his jacket over his shoulders, "Lets check it out."

As they exited the room James and Artie was struck by the aroma of freshly made tortillas with a hearty whiff of spiced sausage and eggs. Both felt their stomachs tighten and they then decided that the pit climbing could wait until after breakfast.

West and Gordon was caught off-guard when they strode into the kitchen and discovered a man in uniform, busily cooking, hopping from stove to counter, as if he was at home intently preparing a meal for his family.

"Buenos Dias," he glanced over his shoulder to greet them, "I am Captain Miguel Sandoval of the Federales, 7th Regimen, and you must be Senor's West and Gordon, many pardons if we do not shake hands." He elaborated on his point by exposing the spatula, towel, and frying pan in his possession.

"Does everyone in Mexico know who we are?" Gordon asked West under his breath.

The colorfully garbed chef finished his cooking and began divvying up the fare, "If you will have a seat, gentlemen," he motioned with his eyes to the table and benches behind them.

Rose was already seated uncomfortably in-between two soldiers, the bench on the opposite side had another soldier, two other soldiers stood at the back door.

Jim and Artie extended a morning greeting to the lady and took their seats.

The Captain soon joined the group after passing out the delicious chow to his men at the table, he began asking questions as they started to eat, "So what is the United States Secret Service doing in our little town of Santa Tierra?"

"At the moment starving," Gordon answered with a twinge of sarcasm.

"Actually my friend and I are on a much needed furlough," Jim jumped in, "we decided to come down and visit an old friend."

"Palmer," queried the Captain between bites, "perhaps you gentlemen could tell me where Senor Palmer is?"

"I wish we could, Captain," answered Artie as he thought about coveting some of his neighbors eggs.

Sandoval scooped a hearty bite of sausage with a bit of tortilla, "After breakfast and a thorough search we can take a little jaunt south to one of the military outposts and resume our discussion there."

Both West and Gordon felt the walls closing in and realized the Captain's invitation to an interrogation was only going to prolong and hamper their efforts to find their colleague.

"Well," Artie stood and ventured toward the counter, "If you don't mind Captain, I'll just whip up a quick snack for the trip."

Sandoval's men stirred and the Captain, intrigued and somewhat amused with Gordon's behavior, waved off the soldiers and allowed him to continue.

Artie started to bring some pots and utensils together and with a slight hum was off and cooking. To his right he spotted a jar of flour and unnoticed by the others, he activated the small explosive device that he had stealthily palmed while leaving the table, and slipped it into the pot.

West patiently bided his time, waiting for his partner's move, his mind raced over his options as he prepared his escape.

"Make sure you prepare a good meal Senor," added the Captain, "it might be awhile before you eat as you have come accustomed to." His men chuckled as they continued to finish their plates.

A split-second after Gordon's explosive detonated and had sent the flour into a huge, billowing cloud that filled the room, James West up-ended the table, sending it flying toward the guards at the door, he lashed his elbow around and met with the jaw of the soldier next to him. Instinctively Rose splayed out her arms, forcing her captors backward on the bench, crashing with a bone-jarring thud on the floor below.

West flew from the kitchen and bolted for the stairs, a wake of snow-white powder trailing behind. As James ran he was busy assembling the cable of his propelling mechanism to a barbed piton. From the corner of his eye, he caught Captain Sandoval emerge from the kitchen and heading for the stairs, frantically waving away the flour that hung in the air. Simultaneously, West un-holstered his Colt as lowered his shoulder and plowed through the damaged room's locked door. He placed the piton in the revolvers barrel and was about to send it into one of the wall's support beams when he heard his name blare out behind him, Captain Sandoval filled the doorway, his face twisted in anger and hands fumbling for his firearm.

Without a word, West spun toward Sandoval, lowered and discharged his weapon, the Captain dropped just below the small spiked cable as it lodged in the rail of the landing.

Sandoval was trapped on the floor, pinched from above with West's cable, within a few moments the tension on the cable disappeared and he was able to get to his knees, his gun fanning an empty room.

His quarry was obviously down the pit, but he still had the others, "Cap-I-tan," one of his subordinates called out as he made his way up the stairs, winded he babbled on, "The Woman and the Gringo have disappeared!"

Sandoval's pride had been wounded, his ire rapidly burned hotter and hotter as he brushed the flour from his uniform and his ebony hair. Barking out orders, Sandoval split his tiny group into two; his second-in-command would take three of the soldiers and hunt for Gordon and the girl, while he and the remaining soldier would descend into the pit for West, his fury had began to wane as he relished the thought of what he was going to do once he caught up with the elusive Mr. West.


End file.

Wild Wild West, Adventure, Western